<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Night Shift by StepfordSnarker</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29853981">The Night Shift</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/StepfordSnarker/pseuds/StepfordSnarker'>StepfordSnarker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Blink-And-You-Miss-It ships, Gen, Hawkins Holiday Hiatus, M/M, Multi-perspective, Shapeshifting, Swearing, This is an AU fic but you can read it without having seen SPN, Vampires, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:54:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,904</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29853981</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/StepfordSnarker/pseuds/StepfordSnarker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The gun’s metal is cold and damp against Will’s palm. He grips it tighter, and his eyes scan woodland brush for his brother’s face. It can’t be far now—could be around any corner. The surrounding winterscape sits still and silent, like that petrified forest in Arizona that they’d passed through while hunting a poltergeist—one that had been haunting the area irregularly ever since the 1860s. Back then, it had been taking showgirls left and right. By last month, it had clearly started to prefer couch-surfing stage musicians. The petrified forest had been useful because, in its all-consuming silence, the stray plink of a guitar string in its case was like a beacon of light. But this place… Will doesn’t like this silence.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Byers &amp; Will Byers, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington &amp; Dustin Henderson, Will Byers &amp; Dustin Henderson, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitKatWinchester/gifts">KitKatWinchester</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Fic for the Hawkins Holiday Hiatus hosted by <a>SevenSided</a> &lt;3</p><p>This is the very first fic from the Hunters!AU that I've been planning! It's very exciting to publish haha</p><p>Content warnings:<br/>- More than canon-typical swearing<br/>- Violence. Not sure whether it counts as graphic or not. Proceed with caution.<br/>- BY THE WAY, if you don't know what "Tom of Finland" comics are, do NOT google them in a public setting. That google search will lead to sexually graphic material.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Will</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The gun’s metal is cold and damp against Will’s palm. He grips it tighter, and his eyes scan woodland brush for his brother’s face. It can’t be far now—could be around any corner. The surrounding winterscape sits still and silent, like that petrified forest in Arizona that they’d passed through while hunting a poltergeist—one that had been haunting the area irregularly ever since the 1860s. Back then, it had been taking showgirls left and right. By last month, it had clearly started to prefer couch-surfing stage musicians. The petrified forest had been useful because, in its all-consuming silence, the stray </span>
  <em>
    <span>plink</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a guitar string in its case was like a beacon of light. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> place… Will doesn’t like this silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leaves ruffle behind him. He whips around and points the gun, ready to fire.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It looks like Dustin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“WHERE ARE THEY?” Will shouts. He places the barrel of the gun against its chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> It puts its hands up, looking shocked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t play innocent,” Will says. “Where are they?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s me!” It says. “Dustin!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s certainty falters. “Prove it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Either the shapeshifter or Dustin is bewildered. Its jaw moves up and down a few times before it stumbles into some words: “I—I have to be honest, man, the only thing I can think of right now is really embarrassing and you might remember it but I really don’t want to bring it up—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  Will jabs him with the barrell again, gives him a stubborn glare. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okayokayokay—” he says. “My birthday party. Remember when Sofia Adkins didn’t show up to my 14th birthday party and I cried and you and Lucas had to drag me into my bedroom and my mom had to send everyone home?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s Dustin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will lowers the gun with an exhale. “Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something grabs him from behind.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Jonathan</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Damp ropes have carved itchy red marks into the skin on Jonathan’s wrists. His mind is engulfed by a dark, foggy overhang, and he can’t remember how he got here. The ground is mostly mud and ice. He’s freezing; his pants, outer shirt, coat, and walkie talkie have been taken. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The shifter. It had grabbed him, had tied him up. He had watched it shed its skin, had watched it become </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He squints up at the sky to ascertain how long he’s been out. The sun is low, but not quite setting. So it should have only been an hour or two. Well, unless it’s been a couple of days. Jonathan pulls against the tree trunk that he’s tied to—in vain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes stock of the situation. Will knows that they’re up against a shifter, but does he even know that Jonathan’s gone? What if the shifter is walking side by side with Will right now? What if it’s already attacked him too? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hopper knows they’re out. If he doesn’t hear from them, he’ll go looking. The problem is just surviving long enough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surviving out in the middle of nowhere. Again, and he cannot stress this enough, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the sun sets, orange and red flood the horizon behind dead, barren trees. They stand out like black silhouettes against the sky, and the fading sunlight glints through icicles hanging from thin, skeletal branches. It’s the sort of thing that Jonathan would have liked to photograph. But there’s no time for that these days. As the sun sets, the woods grow colder. Jonathan can’t feel his toes or his fingers. Can’t even feel his legs, for that matter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just as he’s resigned to death-by-frostbite, he hears a pair of shoes crunching through the snow. Hopper? But the steps are too light. They don’t betray the weight of Hopper’s bulky leather boots. It could be Will. It could be the shifter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It could be anyone but the guy who’s currently standing in front of Jonathan. There’s no way. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No way in hell.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve Harrington.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> Steve Harrington. Jonathan hasn’t seen him in, what, six years? Not since Mom went missing, and Lonnie hauled Jonathan and Will off on a hunting trip that never seemed to end. He had been 16 then; he’s 22 now. You don’t notice the way that your own face ages, and you don’t catch the stages of maturation in your brother when you see him every day. Now Jonathan can, for the first time, comprehend how many years have passed—sees it in the slight concave of Steve’s cheeks and the new wrinkles in his brow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Steve crouches down, panic in his eyes. “Hey, man, you awake?” he says. “Can you hear me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonathan, who can barely move his mouth, groans. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck, what the fuck.” Steve says it mostly to himself. He dips out of view behind the tree, and starts fiddling with the ropes. Ice crackles under his fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonathan hisses in pain and shakes his head. He growls out, “No!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve pauses, hands still on the rope. “...Sorry, what?” His delivery is nearly comedic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ge’way fr’m me!” Jonathan mumbles. He wiggles his arms and yanks them out of Steve’s grip. This can’t be the real Steve. What would he be doing out here at night? “G’way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know if you know this, man, but you’re tied up. And bloody.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he doesn’t get a response, Steve goes right back to messing with the ropes. “Stop—” he grinds out—”stop struggling! Look, if you wanna wait an hour, I can call the cops instead. Let them handle this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jonathan says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Then I’m cutting you out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> It could be anywhere between 10 minutes and half an hour before Steve pulls back from</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>the tree trunk, releasing the rope. He resheathes a little pocket knife and drops it back in his coat. It’s dark out. Jonathan can’t get his legs to listen to his mind. He wills them, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand up. Please, stand up.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened?” Steve asks. And then, even worse: “Wait a minute, do I know you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Will</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only one thought gains purchase in his mind: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shoot it.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonathan, but Not Jonathan, has a hold on Will’s arm. Will sends his elbow flying backward to jab into the shifter’s sternum, then lifts his foot and brings it down hard on its toes. In his brother’s voice, the shifter shouts. But it doesn’t let go, and he can’t maneuver around enough to point his weapon at it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shoot!” Will commands. The gun is loaded with silver bullets, the only way to kill a shifter. He throws the gun toward Dustin, and it lands by his feet. Dustin picks it up, then aims. He hesitates. In hunting, those few seconds are precious. “Shoot!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A gunshot rings through the air, and everything goes dark.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Steve</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s seen this guy around before. Hell, he’s seen everyone before—Hawkins is small. But the guy, whose face has been bludgeoned and is dripping in dark red stuff that looks so much more real than horror movie blood, shakes his head no and tilts backward against the tree. They’ve got to get out of here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you go to Hawkins High?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Kay,” Steve says. “I just don’t believe you.” He reaches down to grip the guy’s arm, but Mr. Mysterious jerks away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m getting kind of fed up with you, man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then leave me.” The guy won’t even make eye contact with Steve. He’s just staring at the ground. Wearing only a t-shirt and boxers in the middle of the icy woods as sun-down submerges the two of them in darkness. He’s not going anywhere on his own, not like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Steve says. He goes for the guy’s arm again, and even though he tries to swerve away, Steve is faster. Thank god for basketball: all that practice stealing the ball right from the other team’s hands—stealthy. Like a ninja. Getting the other wrist in his grip is even more difficult, and Steve nearly swaddles the guy in his arms, creating a straightjacket with his own body. Steve stands him up. “We gotta get out of here. I don’t know who or what got you, but it’s probably still in the area.” For the first time, the guy slumps in his arms, given up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you give me a name at least? So I know what to call you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guy breathes in and out. Twice before he even seems to consider moving his lips. He must be in a lot of pain. Steve tries to ignore the fact that there’s blood dripping off his face and onto Steve’s new shirt. But god, it was a nice shirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jonathan,” he responds, finally.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jona—” Steve furrows his brow. He</span>
  <em>
    <span> does</span>
  </em>
  <span> know this guy. Jonathan… Byers. Jonathan Byers. They’d gone to school together since first grade. The Byers had lived in the sketchier side of Hawkins, and then Jonathan had up and left sometime around Steve’s junior year. People move all the time, but maybe something more sinister had happened here. Kidnapping? Had he been locked in somebody’s basement for the past several years and just escaped? Steve had seen a story like that on the news before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonathan glares at him. “Yeah,” he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“That</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jonathan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes can get pretty intense. Steve just nods. He guides one of Jonathan’s arms so it’s across Steve’s shoulders, and he can lean on him for support. “Can you walk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” Steve says. “Let’s go. My car’s half a mile from here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonathan groans.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Dustin</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dustin hasn’t fought a shapeshifter before. Ghosts—plenty. Even a couple of vampires. Never a shifter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only reason he hesitated was because it'd had Will right in its grasp, and he really didn’t want to fuck up and shoot Will. That, and it had looked like Jonathan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And because he’d waited, it’s now running away in the opposite direction, bridal-carrying Will in its arms. Dustin runs after them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows he’s not the most skilled hunter in the world. He’d always been more of a brains-over-brawn type. Only got started two years ago—made a pact with Lucas. See, Will had stopped answering their phone calls for a week. And they’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>known</span>
  </em>
  <span> that his dad had Will and Jonathan in some shady business, but they’d never gone totally MIA like that. Something was up. So Lucas said he was going to Dustin’s, and Dustin said he was going to Lucas’s, and they didn’t come back from school. They didn’t come back, period.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>First was back-tracing all of their previous contact with Will to find out where he’d been last. And that took a road trip all the way to a hostel in New York City. They’d questioned the owner, and came up with a young filmmaker’s address in the West Village. But when they arrived, the apartment was empty, and it looked like there’d been quite a struggle. That’s when Police Chief Jim Hopper and a couple of his goons jumped Dustin and Lucas, restrained them in handcuffs for questioning. Dustin’s heart had practically pounded out of his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hopper wasn’t a “good cop,” but it was clear he had motives that differed from your everyday law enforcement. That conversation back in the precinct had stuck with Dustin:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you happen to know about the two young men—two brothers—who were last seen at that apartment?” Hopper asks, puffing smoke from a cigarette he almost definitely shouldn’t have had inside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean Will and Jonathan? I know we haven’t been able to get ahold of Will since mid-April. My friend and I got </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried,</span>
  </em>
  <span> so we went after him.” Dustin crosses his arms and leans back in the chair. “We’ve known him since, like, forever.” Well, Lucas had. “He’s our best friend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fascinating,” Hopper says. His tone is flat. “Where’re you from?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All of us are from Hawkins. Hawkins, Indiana. Tiny-ass town; you wouldn’t’ve heard of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hopper squints, puffs his cigarette. “Why don’t you boys run on home and let the professionals take care of it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because,” Lucas begins. He and Dustin share a look. Then, he turns slowly to Hopper and splutters, “You don’t have the full story.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From then onward, they’d joined the search. It was just them and Hopper, who apparently already knew about the more supernatural side of things—that the Byers brothers were hunters. Not after rabbits and deer, but the stuff of storybooks. Stuff that Dustin, Lucas, and Will used to roleplay or read about in comics. And Hop had more than </span>
  <em>
    <span>recognized</span>
  </em>
  <span> the name Hawkins; he’d grown up there. Knew Will’s mom in high school. Was even </span>
  <em>
    <span>working with</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jonathan and Will right up until they’d disappeared. So Dustin, Lucas, and the chief of police spent that evening comparing notes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From what they could tell, the boys were actually between hunting gigs at the time. Will had recently started to get friendly with some guy named Andy, the filmmaker whose apartment they’d illegally ransacked for clues. Despite the mess, that living room seemed like just the place that Will would have loved to stay: weird, inscrutable artwork hanging on the walls, great natural lighting, and books ranging from </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Dispossessed</span>
  </em>
  <span> (one of Dustin’s favorites) to a vintage collection of Tom of Finland comics (</span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dustin’s thing. At all.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It seemed like Will had gone missing first, and Jonathan shortly after—as if maybe Will had gone out and failed to come back the next morning, and Jonathan had gone looking for him. This guy Andy was probably the perpetrator.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After asking around the neighborhood and watching Lucas get hit on twice—he’d gone tongue-tied both times—they’d narrowed the most likely locations down to the nearest bodega. There was a “closed” sign up on the door. And that’s exactly where they found Jonathan and Will, in a dingy storage room with flickering lights, sitting handcuffed back-to-back, nearly passed out from exhaustion. The brothers looked up at them, Will with a wry smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hopper went to cut the cuffs off with a large steel retractable blade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened?” Dustin asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Vampire,” Jonathan said. “Strong one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucas poked his head out the storage room door as if to check for leftover monsters. Seemed clear. “How long have you two been here? Where’d the vampire go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Jonathan said. “What day is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The eleventh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Will said. He’d been pretty quiet. “...I’ve been here for three days.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been here for two,” Jonathan added. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of knife on metal stopped, and Hopper pulled the first pair of cuffs from their wrists. He grunted, moved onto the next pair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will shook his head. “I have to go after him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Lucas said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“We</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to get you and Jonathan some food and water.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s gonna go after other people—</span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span> other people.” Frankly, Will looked like shit. There was no way he could pull off going after a vampire, much less one who’d already kicked his ass, on his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hopper paused in his cutting, grabbed one of Will’s shoulders, and said, “Look at me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do we never do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will didn’t answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll say it one more time,” Hopper’s voice was loud. He was angry. “What. do. we. </span>
  <em>
    <span>never. </span>
  </em>
  <span>do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hunt alone,” Will spat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s right,” Hopper said. “So I’m going to cut you boys out, and then we’re going to go back to the precinct. And what are we not going to do, Will?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will cast his eyes away from Hopper, staring down at the floor. “Hunt alone,” he sighed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dustin and Lucas shared a glance.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It had been late enough that the precinct was pretty much empty. Dustin, Lucas, Hopper, and Jonathan and Will (now supplied with snacks taken from the bodega—hey, it’d been deserted!) trudged into the office in silence. Hop’s desk was cluttered with papers and files, strewn out like Martha Wayne’s pearl necklace. All in a day’s work to track down the Byers. They took a couple of extra chairs into the office and sat together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dustin began to clear off a space on Hop’s desk for the snacks to go, and came across a file labeled “Nephilim.” His curiosity got the best of him; he picked it up and began to flip through it. He’d only gotten through a page or two before Hopper cleared his throat. Dustin opened his mouth to apologize, but Hopper tore the file out of his hands in one swift motion. Dustin had had a long, red papercut running across his palm for about two weeks afterward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They all sat quietly while Hopper started to tidy up his stacks of paper. Jonathan was eating a fruit roll-up, which maybe wasn’t the best snack post-traumatic event. But what did Dustin know?—hunters were weird. Will, meanwhile, had made no effort at eating, and was taking sporadic sips out of his water bottle when reminded. His body was in the office, but his mind was clearly off somewhere else. Apparently, Hopper had gotten fed up with his brooding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kid,” Hopper began. All of the boys’ heads lifted in response, but his eyes were pointed at Will. “We all make mistakes sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will grimaced. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s an easy mistake to make—hell, I’ve done it too. You meet someone, you get so wrapped up in the idea of them that you forget about all the bad stuff out there—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Will said. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You… this Andy. You couldn’ta known.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. No, I knew he was a vampire.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room went still as the implications of that statement set in. Jonathan squinted and opened his mouth to talk, but Will kept going.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was</span>
  <em>
    <span> hunting</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. The whole time. He was finding his victims at the local clubs and bringing them home to drink. So I thought I could set myself up as bait and get him that way.” Dustin’s mind filled in what had gone unsaid: </span>
  <em>
    <span>the gay clubs. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Clearly I was wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you tell us?” Jonathan asked. “We could have gone after him together! Imagine if he’d taken you back to a nest! You would’ve been outnumbered.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will crossed his arms. “I didn’t want you to know.” A pause. “And obviously he didn’t need to outnumber us to get us handcuffed in storage.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kid, you have to tell us when you’re trying to go after something,” Hop said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? I should tell the police when there are gay men going missing in New York City?” Will laughed bitterly. “As if you didn’t already know. As if you weren’t ignoring it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hopper sat back in his big chair and rubbed his face. Sighed. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Jonathan</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve drops Jonathan a few times on their way to the car. It doesn’t hurt because his body is so numb already. Each drop comes with a pathetic little “sorry.” One even comes with some nervous laughter. But they get there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve has a BMW—about a decade younger than Jonathan’s Ford LTD. Cleaner, too. It’s the kind of car you use to take your date to the drive-in, not that Jonathan’s ever been. Steve opens the back door and leans Jonathan into the car, which isn’t warm, but</span>
  <em>
    <span> is</span>
  </em>
  <span> dry. He lets Jonathan lay there awhile as he goes around to the trunk and pops it open. This is weird. This is so, so weird. There’s a tree-shaped, pine-scented car freshener and a green graduation tassel hanging from the car mirror. Because of Lonnie, Jonathan had never graduated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve returns with a bundle of clothing in his arms. “Pro-tip,” he starts. Jonathan knows he isn’t going to like whatever comes next. “Always carry some fresh threads in your trunk. Clean clothes equals no shame, and no shame equals no</span>
  <em>
    <span> walk </span>
  </em>
  <span>of shame.” He shoves the pile at Jonathan’s chest. It’s a pair of grey Hawkins High sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. There’s a pair of old sneakers and mis-matched socks balled up on top. Jonathan looks at Steve expectantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m waiting for you to leave so I can change.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Steve says. “Right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closes the car door and goes to stand ten feet away, facing the trees. Like he’s worried Jonathan will think he’s looking at him. Dumbass. And who does the walk of shame in Hawkins? You can’t exactly have a one night stand in a town where you know everyone, right? He dresses, slowly. The feeling is only just starting to come back into his limbs, and he’s concerned about the ring and pinky fingers on his left hand, which are blistered and waxy. He ditches the T-shirt he’d been wearing onto the car floor, but keeps his soaked, cold boxers on. He’d rather go numb down there than go commando in Steve’s sweatpants. When he’s done, Jonathan opens the door and trades the back for the passenger’s seat up front. Steve takes the driver’s side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So…” Steve says. Jonathan expects the prying, and isn’t surprised when it comes. “What—what’s all this about?” He’s gesturing to Jonathan’s whole body, as if Jonathan had just wandered out in the woods one day and decided it was time to run into a tree a few hundred times consecutively. There’s a long stretch of nothing in which Jonathan wrestles with the idea of telling Steve Harrington about hunting. It’ll confirm everything the kids at school thought: that Jonathan was a freak, that his family was fucked up, that he could never be like them. And Steve probably won’t even believe him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Jonathan is exhausted, and coming up with an elaborate lie—not just for why he was tied up, but why he was back in Hawkins at all—seems like too much work. And maybe the look on Steve’s face will be worth it.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Monster hunting,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve’s eyes shoot to the side and his lips curl up in that way that says 1.) he doesn’t believe you and 2.) you’re stupid for thinking he would. “Alright, alright. I get it.” He slaps his hand on the steering wheel and laughs. “You don’t like me, and it’s not my business. That’s fine. But if whoever did this to you can do the same to other people in town—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What</span>
  </em>
  <span> did this to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you. It was a monster. A shapeshifter. By the way, if you see something that looks like me, you should run.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve stares back at him, slack-jawed. “You’re serious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonathan nods, then sighs. “Not that you believe me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> believe it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All I’m saying is, there’s some weird shit happening here, and I’m placing my bets on kidnappers or serial killers—” Steve pauses suddenly, looking Jonathan up and down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jonathan rolls his eyes. “I’m not a serial killer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t say that.” But he looks like he regrets bringing Jonathan into his car. Hell, he might piss his pants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What kind of serial killer </span>
  <em>
    <span>ties himself up to a tree</span>
  </em>
  <span> when it’s freezing outside?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would be pretty dumb, yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about you?” Jonathan turns on Steve. “Why are you wandering around the woods at night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve adjusts the mirror like he’s looking for something to do with his hands. “This girl I work with—Robin. She went to school with us, you might’ve known her. She disappeared a few weeks ago. I asked all her friends, but they don’t know where she is. And the weird thing is that she doesn’t have parents. Like the whole time she’s been here, nobody’s been living with her. What the fuck, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, people leave town all the time, but she would’ve told me,” Steve says. Jonathan isn’t so sure. After all, Steve had called her “this girl I work with,” not “my friend Robin.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So why were you in the woods then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bodies don’t show up a lot in Hawkins, but when they do, this is the place for it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think she was murdered?” Jonathan notes this as a potential case. Provided they beat this shifter first. Christ, they’re losing time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, well,” Jonathan plays with a loose thread in his borrowed sweatpants. “My brother and I have experience handling this sort of shit. If she doesn’t have parents, and she disappeared randomly—maybe it’s a monster you’re working with.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve scoffs. “Just tell me where I’m taking you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Dustin </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His throat and chest are burning. Dustin, who had once been the type to fake a sprained ankle to get out of gym class, has actually gotten a lot fitter in the past couple of years. Hunting requires so much more physical exertion than you’d expect someone who’d memorized the entire Quenya alphabet to be capable of. But he’s running literally for life or death, and it sucks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This would be so much better if Lucas were here. Maybe Will would’ve passed the gun to him instead, and Lucas would’ve fucked the shifter right up. But no, Lucas had decided to stay in California to hunt with Max. What are they hunting anyway, some gnarly waves bro? This sucks this sucks this sucks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dustin trips on a tree root, scratches up his arm pretty bad, but keeps moving anyway. The shifter could be a couple feet ahead of him, and he wouldn’t know. It’s so dark out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next time he trips, it’s over a body. Will’s body. Will!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dustin crouches down next to him—shivering, his skin tinged with blue. Still alive, thank fuck. He grabs Will by the shoulders and shakes him. “Will! Will! Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-It dropped me.” Will seems confused. “It just…” He shifts his body so that he’s sitting up, breathing hard. “Dropped me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did it hurt you? Do you think you can stand?” Dustin helps pull Will to his feet. “I’m sorry about screwing up the shot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Will responds, almost like he’s not listening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why would it just give up like that?” Dustin says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think we scared it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But it had you! It was running!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know!” Will snaps. “Listen, I don’t know why. All I know is that I’m glad to be alive, and we need to go find Jonathan. We’re wasting time.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Steve </b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Dustin?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Like Dustin </span>
  <em>
    <span>Henderson?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Steve says, shocked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I babysat him.” Steve immediately regrets saying the word “babysat” aloud. Was there even a more macho way to say that? He’d been tight on cash, alright! And Dustin was, like, fourteen at the time. Categorically not a baby.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know how many panic attacks his mom had when he left? She thinks he’s part of a drug cartel or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, I would too,” Jonathan says. “The panicking. Not the cartel stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But he’s been ‘monster hunting’ this whole time?” Steve takes his hands off the wheel to put scare quotes on monster hunting. Jonathan groans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘monster hunting.’”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jonathan mocks Steve with his own hands. “It’s monster hunting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Right. So how are you gonna get their attention—Flare? Bat signal? Carrier pigeon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I had a walkie-talkie before the shifter got me, which means</span>
  <em>
    <span> it </span>
  </em>
  <span>probably has it now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Will</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a bright blue flash, and Will comes back to. He’s laying flat on his back on the cold, ice-crusted forest floor. The sudden consciousness hits him like a punch in the face, and he sits up, grabbing the arms attached to the hands that had been pressed to his chest. He sucks in a great gulp of oxygen and meets a pair of round, dark brown eyes—cosmically dark, like black holes. His recent memories come flooding back, and he pushes the arms away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get away!” he shouts. The boy—no, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> in front of him appears to be his age, 17 or 18 years. Will has never seen him before. If it’s the shifter, it’s taken a new victim. He wrestles against its grasp. It lifts an index finger to his forehead, and a wave of calm settles over Will’s body. “What are you?” Will murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I—” It struggles. “I’m Michael.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>what,</span>
  </em>
  <span> not who.” Will slumps over a bit. It’s hard to keep his head upright. He starts to fall forward, but Michael wraps one of his arms—when had it become a he?—around Will’s middle and uses the other to hold Will’s head up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I came on a little strong,” Michael concedes. He moves his hand to press a thumb to Will’s forehead, and some life comes back into Will’s arms and legs. It’s like he’s gone from being tranquilized to being tipsy. Without the fun, of course. Will pushes Michael’s arms away again, but feels no need to run. In an instant, he realizes that his pain from earlier is gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am I dead?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Michael says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was I dead?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Michael doesn’t respond right away, Will’s eyes widen, and he backs up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think I’m an idiot?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Michael blinks, then answers, “I think you’re pretty smart, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will narrows his eyes at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You weren’t dead,” Michael asserts. “You were dying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, well that clarifies things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I healed you.” Michael reaches out, as if to place a hand on Will’s arm, then hesitates. He’s learned that Will doesn’t want to be touched. “I can’t tell you what I am. Not yet.” He’s so animated, head practically bobbing up and down, his hands making awkward movements for emphasis. “But I can help you find your brother and your friend. If you let me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Will pulls his legs in and hugs them to his chest. “It’s not like I have a choice, do I?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Same content warnings as last chapter! Heed the violence warning. And thanks for coming along on my first venture into the supernatural hunters AU! C:</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Dustin</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Walking alongside Will, Dustin can’t help but feel that something is off. Will’s face is betraying more stress than he’s used to seeing, and as sad as it is to say it, Will’s not exactly one to wear his heart on his sleeve. And the shifter just running off like that? It makes no sense. No sense at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dustin’s hands are shoved into his pockets to shield from the cold. He nervously taps a finger against the walkie talkie that he’s been carrying, and he wonders. Earlier, he and Will had tried to contact Jonathan—the real Jonathan—right after he’d gone missing, but no one had responded. And Dustin knows for sure that the shifter had turned into Jonathan at one point, because that’s what it had looked like when it took Will. It could be carrying Jonathan’s walkie talkie, or it could have discarded the thing altogether. Then, if it had taken Will, had </span>
  <em>
    <span>shifted</span>
  </em>
  <span> into Will, it would have faced the same dilemma a second time. So it could have no walkie talkies, one walkie talkie, or two walkie talkies—Christ, he's thought about the word "walkie-talkie" a lot. The real Will, meanwhile, could have one or none (if he’d dropped it), but not two. Which, of course, doesn’t give Dustin much to work with. But it’s all he has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Will,” he says. “Do you have your radio on you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Yeah. Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was thinking we could split up,” Dustin says. “We could cover more ground that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Will stops walking, forcing Dustin to turn toward him. “Are you kidding me? That’s a terrible idea. Didn’t you see what just happened to me back there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know, but Jonathan is out there freezing to death, and we don’t know what we’re doing.” He fumbles for the call tone button and braces himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of just one radio answers from Will’s jacket. Dustin closes his eyes, swearing silently to himself. Will pulls the radio from his pocket and shifts his eyes to Dustin, curiously. “Why are you calling me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Must’ve accidentally hit the button,” he responds. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine.” Will slides the radio back into his pocket, upside down. “But I think we should stick together.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Jonathan</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“There!” Jonathan says it so sudden and so loud that Steve nearly swerves the car off the road. “Did you see that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s Will and Dustin. Pull over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright! Jesus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Jonathan gets out and starts walking back into the woods, but Steve isn’t with him. He turns around and sees Steve rifling through his trunk. “Psst,” Jonathan says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get over here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>From the car’s trunk, Steve pulls out a flashlight that’s big enough to crack a skull and what looks like a crowbar. He waves both objects in the air at Jonathan as if to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is what I’m doing! I’m not always an idiot!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan holds the flashlight and switches on its white-hot beam. The light carves out a perfect circle of clarity wherever it’s pointed, which is leaps and bounds better than how Jonathan had been sitting helpless in the dark an hour ago. Steve has kept a hold on the crowbar, probably because, of the two of them, he’s in better shape to be hitting things. Or maybe he still thinks that Jonathan’s a serial killer. But whatever—Jonathan didn’t come out here to make friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There had been two boy-shaped shadows retreating further into the darkness just at the edge of the road, though now they've disappeared. If Steve and Jonathan are quiet enough, they can hear the crunch of ice or leaves. The squelching mud. Heading north, or northwest. Jonathan motions for Steve to follow him, and they descend deeper into the brush.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Will</b>
</p><p>
  <span>He hugs himself to stay warm while Michael performs some sort of magic trick that’s supposed to help them track down Dustin and Jonathan. He hates to think of what the shifter could be up to. It had to be running around in </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> body, or a carbon copy of it. Did Dustin know? And if Will had been on the brink of death by the time Michael had found him, could Jonathan have survived? Or had he perished well before his time like so many young hunters do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will can’t let himself consider the worst case scenario because he’ll lose all motivation to keep going. If his older brother had died, Will might just curl up on the woodland floor and close his eyes and never wake up. But people are relying on him. And if Jonathan is still alive out there, Will is his best bet at survival.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael casts a glance over his shoulder, scanning Will from head to toe. “Do you need a coat?” he asks. “You look cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s true. The shifters always take their victims’ clothing because they can mimic skin but can’t fabricate… fabric. Will glances down at his mushy-socked feet, his boxer-briefs, and his ratty Velvet Underground t-shirt. Whatever spell Michael had cast over him earlier—Will is growing more and more certain that he’s some kind of warlock—has begun to wear off, and the cold is biting into his skin. Maybe this strange boy has some power to conjure clothing. “Kinda,” Will says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael shrugs off the long black winter coat that he’s been wearing and holds it out. He smiles, and Will can’t help but notice how </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span> he looks. The creatures that he and Jonathan hunt on a regular basis are dangerous—they corner humans in dark alleyways and exact revenge from beyond the grave. But Michael, whatever he is, is either a special case or very, very good at acting. “Won’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> be cold?” Will asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael tilts his head side to side. “No. I barely feel it in—here.” He holds the coat open while Will shrugs it on. Will doesn’t know how to respond to such an odd comment, so he doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he asks, “Did you find anyone?” The buttons are difficult to loop through their holes with such numb fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Michael answers. “There’re three humans and one strange presence—I’m guessing that’s your shapeshifter—in that direction.” He points directly ahead, where there appears to be… more trees. This is going to be a leap of faith. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Three </span>
  </em>
  <span>humans?” Will says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Michael walks toward Will, who’s still having trouble with the buttons, and takes the matter into his own hands. For the first time, Will realizes that when Michael breathes, his breath leaves no visible cloud in the cold air. It’s like seeing a vampire walk in front of a mirror with no reflection. Will watches his own breath bloom from his nose and mouth while Michael fastens the highest buttons on his coat. He feels self-conscious, almost, being so human. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their eyes meet again as Michael finishes the last button, and Will swallows. His first impulse is to kill these things. For six years, Lonnie had said that a good monster is a dead monster, but Will takes everything that Lonnie has said with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>boulder</span>
  </em>
  <span> of salt these days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the third time tonight, he pushes Michael’s hands away and starts to move forward, quickly. He doesn’t have weapons on him anymore, but he has his fists and whatever the hell it is that Michael has going on. The least he can do is go down fighting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Dustin</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Overhead, the Moon is a waxing gibbous, nearly full. There were days, back when they were ten or eleven, when nothing was complicated. Dustin misses those days. Every night the week after they’d finished their astronomy unit in fifth grade, Dustin, Lucas, and Will borrowed the classroom telescope from Mr. Clarke and took it out to the grassy hill at night to look at the Moon or distant nebulas. Their moms took turns chaperoning, and Ms. Henderson had even baked little cupcakes decorated like the planets with frosting for that final Friday. Now, Dustin still looks at the stars every night, but he hasn’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen</span>
  </em>
  <span> them since then. When Will left, it was like they’d all been blown out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like after Dustin’s dad had died. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But these are old wounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The longer he walks alongside this Will, the more antsy he becomes. The creepy thing about the shifter—okay, one of many—is that they don’t know what it wants. They hadn’t gone searching for it; in fact, they’d been working on a ghost gig in the next town over. Then there was a call from Hopper, who said that one of his old cop partners in Hawkins had reported seeing Jonathan Byers around town, going in and out of stores and sitting in the local park. So, for the first time in two years, Dustin went home. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>home,</span>
  </em>
  <span> to his mom, but home in the general sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>According to the lore, shapeshifters only need to see their victim for a few moments to capture their image. They can mimic every part of somebody, from their fingerprints down to their DNA. On the drive from California to Indiana, Jonathan had stopped in at a gas station to refill, and that’s most likely where the shifter had seen him. Of course, killing the thing is their intention. The problem is that if they kill it, they won’t know why it’s doing what it’s doing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A white beam cuts through the darkness between the tree trunks. Dustin gasps. He turns to look at Will, whose eyes grow cold and hard. Dustin can hear his heart pounding in his chest. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dustin?” A voice like Jonathan’s answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will throws his hand out to block Dustin from walking forward. “Could be the shifter,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or it’s Jonathan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really think Jonathan survived?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you think we would have found him by now?” Will bites.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The footsteps approach faster. It sounds like two pairs of feet—maybe they’d all found each other! Which means that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will…</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Dustin!” Jonathan calls, finally entering the clearing. It’s dark, but Dustin can see that the person walking alongside Jonathan is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...Steve?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could say the same to you, Henderson!” Steve answers. “Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>wouldn’t say ‘Steve.’ You know what I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dustin would laugh if he wasn’t so shocked. “What is he doing here?” Dustin’s question is pointed at Jonathan, who he realizes could also be the shifter. Or what if the shifter got to Steve? That would be easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan stops walking and mimics the same gesture that Will had done earlier to stop Steve from moving forward. Fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anybody</span>
  </em>
  <span> could be the shifter. They stand far apart, sizing each other up. Like a Wild West standoff. If it wasn’t snowing. And in Hawkins.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Will</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael is gone. Will has been running straight as a crow through the woods, and Michael has abandoned him. This could be another trap—a shapeshifter and warlock working together is strange, but Will has seen stranger match-ups in his half-decade of hunting. He could be running right into the great, snapping maw of death. And yet, he runs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The minutes pass slowly as his legs push him forward, mindless of the ice that jabs his soles. There is a glimmer of white light, so he follows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the edge of a clearing are four vertical shapes of various heights. It’s Dustin’s muffled voice that he hears first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A soft, lanky mass breaks Will’s momentum, and he backs up, clutching his nose (which might now be broken. Christ.) It hadn’t been there before. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Michael</span>
  </em>
  <span> hadn’t been there before. Will groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh—” Michael whips around. “Are you okay, Will?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s blood dripping down Will’s palms. “I never told you my name,” he replies, voice nasally and stifled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I know.” Michael gently nudges Will’s hands out of the way and lays his hand on his nose. Blue light glows beneath his fingers, like skin pressed up against a flashlight. Will stumbles backward, and they stare at each other for a moment, like deer in headlights; although Will doesn’t know whether he’s the deer or the headlights. He braces himself and shoves past Michael to get to the clearing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears his own voice arguing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can we know it’s really you?” Will, Not Will, the shifter, says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bright beam of light falls directly onto Will’s face. He blinks a few times and lifts his hand to shield from the glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will?” Jonathan says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jonathan!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Will answers. The light is blinding. Jonathan directs the flashlight beam away from him and points it at… Will. The shifter standing by Dustin. Its face blanches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a loud yelp from a voice that Will doesn’t recognize. A man in his early twenties is standing next to Jonathan, wielding a long, thin crowbar out in front of him. He points it first at the shifter, and then at Will. “This is crazy,” he says. “This is crazy—this is CRAZY!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Told you,” Jonathan says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dustin takes the gun from his belt and holds it up. He aims at Will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will throws his hands up in the air. “It’s me! It’s really me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shifter reaches out for Dustin’s shoulder and stares Will down. “Shoot it! Shoot it, Dustin!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dustin’s hands are shaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael jumps in front of Will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shifter recoils. Dustin stammers, “Wh—who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t shoot him!” Michael shouts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just kill them</span>
  <em>
    <span> both—”</span>
  </em>
  <span> the shifter growls. It swipes the gun from Dustin’s hands and aims and fires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three bullets hit Michael in quick succession. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From behind, Will can’t see where they’ve hit, but the others gasp. Michael doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even flinch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shifter is breathing hard now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It swings its arms around and shoots again. Steve screams. Dustin sends his whole body weight crashing against the shifter to knock it to the ground. The gun falls several feet ahead of him. Will lunges towards it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold it down!” Will commands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael runs forward to join Dustin, and together they grip its arms—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Will’s arms</span>
  </em>
  <span>—behind its back. Jonathan rushes over. Dustin takes several cable ties out of his coat pocket and starts to wrap them, to tighten them, around its wrists. Will finds it surreal to see himself like this: wild eyes, veins popping in his forehead, teeth bared like a rabid dog. He knows that he doesn’t show his anger easily; the shifter is him, unrestrained. Even now, the real Will’s face is blank as he lifts the gun, loaded with just a single silver bullet, to its forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What were you doing in my brother’s body?” He demands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shifter laughs, harsh and venomous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you planning to let me go if I squeal?” it says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the ground, Jonathan looks up at Will. He gives a miniscule nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Will replies. His voice is hoarse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had an agreement,” it says. “But then again, who doesn’t these days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop being cute. Answer the question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It pouts. The expression makes Will’s face look childish. “With the demon Abalam. I bring your father to him, and I get my soul back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dad? What would a demon want with </span>
  <em>
    <span>him?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought that I could lure him in if I was one of you,” it says. “Turns out, he doesn’t give enough of a damn to show.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan scowls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lonnie seems like a real piece of work,” it continues. “What if I told you we could team up? You’ve been looking for him for awhile, haven’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm, well,” Dustin says, sarcasm cutting his voice. “You’ve done a bang-up job there already, haven’t you, buddy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shifter smirks at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why is Abalam after our dad?” Will commands, drawing its attention back to him and the loaded gun aimed at its head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It shrugs, smiles. “He skipped out on a deal. Isn’t that</span>
  <em>
    <span> just</span>
  </em>
  <span> like him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will feels a nudge against his foot. Jonathan is looking at him, brows furrowed. He does that little nod again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will pulls the trigger and shoots the shapeshifter dead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Jonathan</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve’s corpse lies on the ice face-up. He’d crumpled to the ground unceremoniously, shot in the chest with a silver bullet where a normal one would have sufficed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is Jonathan’s fault. The casualties of hunting are inevitable, Hop always says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re just doing harm reduction here.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But to Steve, this wasn’t harm reduction. This is a full human life—there one second, gone the next. Because Jonathan had let him help. Why the hell did he let him help? Steve’s crisp blue button-down is stained with a pool of red blood, a massive dark pond spreading outward with no signs of stopping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Byers are usually good at keeping things under the radar, so they’ve seen very few civilians involved aside from original case victims. They’ve seen very few civilians dead. Jonathan draws in a ragged breath. They’ll have to take care of the body, but it’ll draw press—negative attention, especially since Jonathan, Will, and Dustin had all ostensibly vanished years ago. They could drop Steve off at the hospital and then skip town, or leave the body here and phone in an anonymous tip for Hawkins PD. All the same, they’d handled the shifter, and Jonathan couldn’t wait to get out of here. This place made him nostalgic and sentimental—not great for hunting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, they would have another case and move on like nothing had happened. Because that’s what you do in this business.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a minute, Will and Dustin will return. They had taken the shifter’s corpse off to Steve’s car. Jonathan gave them directions, but couldn’t go with them. The image of his young brother bleeding out through his forehead, grotesquely pale, almost blue—it had been too much. He’d made an excuse about needing to give his legs a break before he could go that far from the clearing, which was partially true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The plan was to drive Steve’s BMW around until they could find Jonathan’s Ford, clean it for fingerprints, and then leave it in the lot. Maybe with Steve inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan realizes with a shudder that Dustin had volunteered a bit too quickly to take the shifter’s corpse. As difficult as it was to see a false Will lying cold, Dustin seeing his old babysitter </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>dead holds another, much heavier, weight. Jonathan stares at Steve’s face, eyes wide open and unseeing, and feels like he’s going to vomit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In school, Steve had been a douchebag, for sure. He came to every class late; he laughed at Tommy tripping kids in the hallway; he hit on virtually everything that moved. But he was brave, too—going out alone to search for Robin, dropping everything to save Jonathan. And nobody is the same as they were in high school four or five years after the fact. Jonathan certainly isn’t. Feeling sicker by the moment, he turns away. Steve is gone. There’s no use for remorse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels a gentle pressure against his shoulder and turns around to look. It’s the boy who had been with Will earlier; he’s taller than Jonathan, younger, has dark hair and three clean bullet holes through his shirt in a straight line up his sternum. He’s not human. He gives Jonathan a sad look. Then, he says, “I might be able to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jonathan sniffs, and a tear escapes his eye. Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy doesn’t respond. He’s gazing upwards at the dark night sky. It’s a distant gaze. Creepy, even. It sends a chill up Jonathan’s spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean by that?” Jonathan prompts again. “He’s dead. So unless you’re a necromancer—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy’s hands glow blue, and he makes a move towards Steve’s body. Jonathan gasps, scrambles away. The light casts an eerie glow against the trees in the clearing, and the corpse is bathed in a monstrous blaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dustin runs in from the trees, towards Steve’s body. “Stop!” he shouts. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Will emerges shortly after him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dark-haired boy pays them no attention. His face is flat, a blank focus on the work before him. From this angle, Jonathan can see that beneath the holes in his shirt, the boy’s skin has healed over. It’s as if the bullets hadn’t hit him at all. The blue light dissipates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve shoots upright. The wound in his throat where the silver bullet had lodged is gone, and now, the only blood on him is Jonathan’s from earlier. Dustin, who had been approaching, yelps and reels back. Steve yawns like he’s just woken up from a nap, and then jolts when he sees where he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve blabbers for a minute, saying lots of “whats,” “wheres,” and “whos” before he lands on a resounding, “What the fuck!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, right?” Will says. Jonathan, Dustin, and Steve turn to stare at the dark-haired boy. He has the decency to look sheepish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—I can explain,” he says. “My name is Michael.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael pauses, like he’s waiting for the others to do or say something in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?” Dustin says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “And I can heal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We got that part,” Will says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Jonathan looks from Michael to Steve—a beating heart and breathing lungs where a corpse had been not a minute ago. “You can resurrect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Dustin says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“What</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michael does that thing where he looks out into the sky again. His eyes go distant, and his mouth moves, almost imperceptibly, around the shape of unfamiliar words. In a moment, he’s back in the present with them, and he turns his head, making eye contact with each and every one of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s not exactly a word for it that you would understand,” he says. “So it will be hard to explain.” Michael closes his eyes. When they open again, he looks directly at Will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess the closest phrase in your language would be, ‘I’m an angel of the Lord.’”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Steve</b>
</p><p>
  <span>In the morning, Dustin—who Steve never thought he’d see again, Jonathan, and Jonathan’s little brother, Will, sit with Steve around a table at Benny’s Burgers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a rough night of monster hunting (on the trio’s end) and dying (on Steve’s end), the creepy kid who had claimed to be God’s angel or whatever had vanished, and the remaining team had gone back to the parking lot to decompress. They all sat inside of Jonathan’s Ford while the cold night swept its arms around them. Dustin and the Byers brothers explained a fantasy world to Steve: monster hunting, how Jonathan and Will had gotten into the business, how Dustin had gotten into the business. But the fantasy was all </span>
  <em>
    <span>reality.</span>
  </em>
  <span> They’d been vague on Dustin’s part—something about New York City, police chief Jim Hopper, and a vampire (holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit!)</span>
  </em>
  <span>—but Steve could tell that there were some missing pieces. He didn’t press. This was already so much more than he could handle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d stayed up so late talking that Will nodded off, followed shortly by Dustin. Steve was on his way to dreamland too when Jonathan suddenly reached his hand into the backseat and laid it on top of Steve’s shoulder. This was way too friendly a gesture, and even Jonathan looked unsure of himself as he did it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t—” Jonathan mumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Steve didn’t mean it in an asshole-ish way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan pulled his hands back and crossed his arms against his chest. The wounds on his face had scabbed over, and most of the blood had been cleaned off his skin. Even in the dark, Steve could tell that two of the fingers on Jonathan’s left hand were fully fucked up. Must have been frostbite. They should have told the angel to fix that too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say thanks,” Jonathan said. “Earlier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry about the—the dying.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Steve responded. “I mean, it’s not okay. It’s… wow. Wow, this is all so weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Jonathan said. Steve could swear he heard laughter in the word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So…” Steve glanced at Will, slumped over in the front passenger seat, and Dustin, who had done the same next to Steve. “Are we just sleeping here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan shrugged, then gestured out the window. “Your car’s right there. It’s up to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve was quiet for a minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay to be scared,” Jonathan said. “People usually are, you know, when they learn about this stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>High school Steve would have taken offense. He would have turned around and laughed it right off. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Me? Scared? Yeah right. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But Robin was somewhere out in the world that wasn’t here. She could be kidnapped. She could be dead. And after talking with the Byers, Steve knew that there was more going bump in the night than just some lame serial killers on TV. Jonathan was right: he was scared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve just shrugged. “Too tired to drive,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, that was enough for Jonathan to accept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re welcome,” Steve added.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In Benny’s diner, Dustin and Steve sit across from Will and Jonathan. They order four coffees. Dustin gets his eggs scrambled, Jonathan gets his eggs sunny-side up, and Steve gets a stack of pancakes drowned in maple syrup. They get a plate of hash browns for the table to share. Will doesn’t order, saying that he feels too sick to eat, but then Benny brings out a plate of plain toast for him anyway, saying nobody comes into this joint to not eat. Will picks at it slowly as they recap last night in hushed tones and euphemisms. Not that it matters; it’s 6 am, so the place is practically empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think that guy was actually an angel and not just some witch or something?” Dustin says, heaping more hash browns onto his plate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t see why he’d lie,” Will replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could be a religious zealot,” Jonathan suggests. “Maybe he’s convinced himself that he got his powers from God.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But have you ever seen a necromancer or a witch just disappear like that?” Will asks. He breaks off a corner of the toast and chases it with black coffee. Steve looks down at his own mug, which is practically white with cream and sugar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just because we haven’t seen teleportation spells doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” Jonathan says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is all going way over Steve’s head. He cuts into the blueberry shortstack on his plate and thinks about going back to life as usual after all this. Will he repress these memories? Will he end up in a shrink’s office in a couple of weeks when he has a mental breakdown? The physicality of placing a bite of pancake in his mouth is the only thing that keeps him grounded in this moment. It’s too real to be a nightmare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If angels are real, that means God’s real,” Dustin surmises. “Does that mean demons are real? What about the devil?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will leans his elbows on the table and puts his face in his hands. “I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why couldn’t Michael have stuck around to explain?” Jonathan says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve looks up from his plate. “You could try praying to him,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan, Will, and Dustin all turn to look at him at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’know,” Steve continues. “Since he’s an angel.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their faces all signal the same shock, like they’d just heard a smart idea from the dumbest person they’d ever met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t all answer at once,” Steve says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you do it, Will?” Jonathan asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And finally nobody’s looking at Steve anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why me?” Will says. He has to pull his mug from his mouth to speak, and coffee dribbles down his chin. He grabs a napkin quickly and presses it against his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because Michael came to you first,” Jonathan explains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And he kept staring at you,” Dustin adds. “Whatever his deal is, it’s you that’s important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not—We don’t know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still. You’re our best bet,” Dustin says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually Will agrees to attempting the prayer, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span> breakfast, okay? It registers in Steve’s brain that soon they’re going to finish up, pay the bill, and then the hunters will pack up to move on. And Steve will be the town crazy person on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan puts the last forkfull of egg into his mouth and starts stacking the empty plates on the table for Benny. Steve has never thought to do that before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Jonathan says. His eyes meet Steve’s, and his wounds look a lot worse than they did last night. “What can you tell us about Robin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Robin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Jonathan says. “I told you. I think we have a case here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s Robin?” Dustin asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This girl I work with. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Worked</span>
  </em>
  <span> with. She disappeared without telling anyone. Apparently doesn’t have parents.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That does sound like a case,” Will agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know where her house is?” Jonathan asks. Steve nods. “Good. We’ll head there today to search for clues.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve balks. “You’re seriously gonna take this on?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dustin says. “What if there’s another monster in our hometown?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all shut up when Benny comes by with the bill. It’s finally late enough that the breakfast regulars have started to pour in, so this isn’t the best place to talk monster hunting anymore. Steve reaches for the bill before Jonathan can grab it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s—” Jonathan starts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nuh-uh.” Steve pulls some cash from his jacket and places it on the table. “This is for helping me with Robin.” It’s not like he’s hurting for money, and these guys… How do these guys even survive? It sounds like all they ever do is hunt. There’s no way they have real jobs. Jonathan sits back in the booth, resigned. Steve smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll take a few more breakfasts to pay </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> off,” Dustin says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve frowns.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>